


Across Tides and Currents

by doorwaytoparadise, Sodium_Azide



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Atlantic Ocean, Aziraphale Is Trying (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Vaguely Christian, Aziraphale/Crowley First Kiss (Good Omens), Caretaking, Community: Do It With Style Events, Competent Aziraphale (Good Omens), Creature Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley's Hair (Good Omens), Crowley's Name is Crawly | Crawley (Good Omens), Cultural Differences, First Aid, Fish, Fishing, Healing, Homecoming, Hurricanes & Typhoons, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Language Barrier, Loneliness, M/M, Matriarchal Whale Society, Men Crying, Merperson Crowley (Good Omens), Near Death Experiences, New England, Non-Graphic Description of Injuries, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, References To Animal Death (In The Context Of Standard Predator-Prey Food Webs), Sign Language, Sleep Deprivation, Social Hierarchy, Speech Disorders, Strong Aziraphale (Good Omens), Thunder and Lightning, fangs, sea turtles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:20:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28877844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doorwaytoparadise/pseuds/doorwaytoparadise, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sodium_Azide/pseuds/Sodium_Azide
Summary: A modern fantasy AU, featuring an inauspicious first meeting, inter-species romance, and meeting in the middle.Aziraphale lives a quiet life on the New England coastline, enduring the bad weather and gathering marine data for the local universities. During the worst storm of the worst hurricane season he can remember, something washes up on shore."He looked back towards the ocean as the lightning flashed again. There. On the shoreline, rocking in the storm swell.Oh God no."
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 323
Kudos: 311
Collections: Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Ixnael’s SFW corner





	1. The Shore

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as part of the Do It With Style Community's Reverse Big Bang event, where artists and writers work together to create all sorts of projects about the Good Omens universe. 
> 
> New chapters will be added every Wednesday until the story is complete.

_September 1st, 1996_

The Atlantic ocean is the second-largest body of water on Earth. It is older than any land mass, and less is known about it than the moon. There are seasonal, circular currents that never stop, moving in slow rivers of salinity and changing temperatures that make only two revolutions per millenium. It cradles species whose lifetimes measure in hours, to corals that have lived for thousands of years and will still be peacefully growing long after coastlines change and mountains have worn to dust. Just over a hundred people drown in it each day.

It is where Aziraphale works.

He typically loves it, when he is not spitting out mouthfuls of it while attempting to restrain a madly-wriggling striped eel long enough to get a picture with the camera in his other hand. The easiest thing to do would be to kill it and get a nice, easy image of the corpse beside the inlaid meter stick on the table surface, but it is so beautiful he hasn’t the heart. 

“I am sympathetic to your plight, little one, and I acknowledge that the situation is less than ideal from your perspective. I will stun you if I must, though!” he grumbled.

Aziraphale gave the eel a firm smack, and it flopped on the table. He took the shot, hoping very much that he had the focus right, and scooped the twitching ribbonlike creature back into the bucket of ocean water on the deck. It would revive in a few minutes and he could release it, tagged and measured, back over the side of the boat.

Rubbing his gloved hands hard into his lower back to ease the ache, he stretched for a moment, balancing easily on the rocking deck of his boat. This was the last of the nets he had pulled in and checked for the weeks’ aquatic species census for the university research teams’ current project. There would be far more work to be done once the spring semester began, as the graduate students began to panic. 

Aziraphale released a long exhalation and rolled his shoulders before hefting up the bucket of saltwater and angry eel and pouring everything over the side. The sea in Cape Cod, even here just barely past the protective breakwaters of the bay, was getting rougher. Aziraphale’s mouth thinned into a line as he noticed the torn seaweed and foamy tops of the waves. The hurricane season this year had been the worst in living memory, and the morning radio had said there was another storm on the way, but he had hoped he had more time. 

Well, if wishes were horses, then beggars would ride, as the old saying went. Aziraphale’s rubber boots thudded on the scrubbed deck of his boat as he stored the last of the wet nets with a bit more haste. Rushing meant mistakes, which meant injuries, but his bones were telling him that this storm was coming quickly, and he had a lot of work to do.

No one who lived in New England for longer than a single storm season was too fussed about hurricane season, not so much out of bravery but simply out of exhaustion. It was impossible to be scared for one’s entire life, after all. Aziraphale was considered a relatively recent resident of the small town of Wellfleet, since he had only moved in a decade prior. 

Out of politeness, he didn’t say too much to his neighbors when they bought bottles for drinking games instead of gasoline for emergency generators, since they could make their own decisions. He had certainly laid by some good whiskey and wine himself, for the long days post-storm when no one had electricity and the seas were too rough to work. 

His politeness did have limits, no matter how much self-control he tried to exert. Those same neighbors had left him alone for years now, when he had in fact lost control of his temper at the sight of small children being permitted to play in the floodwaters. He did not regret it, and refused to apologize, and endured the frosty small-town exclusion since then in moderate bitterness. He had his work, gathering data for the research universities and the park service of the protected seashores and waters of the cape. That was enough. 

He didn’t need anyone.

The current was chaotic, but he was familiar with piloting rougher seas, and he knew his boat like his own feet, so he was dropping anchor and splashing to shore in less than half an hour, and immediately started preparing for the heavy weather to come. The generator was in good repair, the nets were stowed down under heavy weights, and after a lot of sweat and effort, he beached his boat as high on shore as he could manage. If the storm floods were bad, nothing would help, but if that occurred then his house would be half underwater and he would be up on the roof with bigger problems than a lost boat. 

The wind was already starting to be an issue, and Aziraphale rushed through a sandwich before he started boarding up the windows of his small home. An hour later, the midafternoon sun was nowhere to be seen as the sky shifted to the unsettling green of the oncoming storm. Wind whipping at his coat, Aziraphale took a last look around, just in case it was the last time he would be able to survey his little kingdom, and went indoors to settle down and get comfortable. It was going to be a long night, and likely a long few days to come.

* * *

The cocoa was perfect, and Auden’s poetry was perfect, and he had made sure to gas up the generator just in case the power went out, which frankly he was expecting any minute now. Aziraphale snuggled cozily into the pillows. The storm was terrible, yes, but he had done everything he could to prepare, and would either enjoy it as it passed over, or be annihilated by the fury of a Category 3 Atlantic hurricane. He took a sip of his cocoa. It was very relaxing, knowing that there was literally nothing to be done but wait and see. He could have evacuated, perhaps, but who would look after the samples and the documents? At least two of the graduate students were depending on this data to get their degree, and he’d not disappoint a young person’s dreams just to go inland. 

Barely visible through the gaps in the boards he had hammered over the windows, the unearthly green light of the hurricane edge slowly shifted into the more normal dark gray of heavy cloudcover. The shrieking wind was slapping the rain against the boards like an angry hand. Aziraphale curled his toes in his cable knit socks decadently. How lovely not to be out in the wet. He murmured a little prayer for those without shelter, finishing as lightning momentarily bathed the room in slits of electric daylight. A heartbeat later, the thunder was loud enough to make the windowglass vibrate even with the protective boards covering them. 

He finished his cocoa before it got cold, and set it aside on the nightstand, idly deciding to wash it later. He was too cozy to get up right now. A warning creak made him lift his head as the house, sturdy as it was, shuddered in the wind. Another buffeting gust of wind, and a wooden crack echoed. The noise of the storm increased instantly. Aziraphale let his head fall back against his comfortable pillows and groaned. He knew that noise. At least one of the boards covering a window on the ocean-facing side of the house had just fallen. The glass was not likely to survive the hurricane, even if his suspicion that the worst of it had passed was true. Unless he wanted to deal with water soaking the floor, the board would need to be replaced quickly.

Aziraphale was already in his boots and shoving his arms into his oilskin before he could talk himself out of it. Outside, the bitter wind and rain hit him like a living thing. He had buttoned his coat closely, but in a storm like this, very little actually helped. The door slammed behind him with a force that might have damaged the lintel. He made a mental note to check it for cracks later. The wind was trying to knock him over and he grimly snapped his hood in place, hitched the replacement board more firmly on his hip, and switched on the lantern. 

The heavy emergency electric lantern in his hand was perhaps overkill, but he didn’t trust his grip on the everyday torch. He would need his hands free to work for at least a few minutes, and this he could set down or clip to his belt if the storm swell was more than a few inches deep.

Finding the vulnerable window was easy, given that the house only had three that faced windward. Only one board had broken, torn free from a nail that was not quite firm enough and had worked loose. In hurricane-strength winds, even those small movements had eventually caused the entire board to tear off, and Aziraphale was grateful that he had heard it before the window had broken. The rain and wind made the new board necessary, but irritating to hold still. 

He was incredibly careful as he nailed the new wood thoroughly into place. The last thing he needed was self-inflicted involuntary stigmata, when the nearest hospital was likely crammed, and probably impossible to reach by road anyway.

Cold, wet, but pleased, Aziraphale assessed his work and checked the rest of the stormward windows as well. Everything seemed hunky-dory, as well it should. It wasn’t his first, or even his tenth, hurricane, and he should certainly know what he was doing by now. He slid his hammer and the spare nails into his largest pocket and snapped the flap safely over them. He’d dry off everything inside. Satisfied, he turned and squinted into the rain to assess the storm. The wind was still trying to flatten him, but didn’t seem to be increasing, and no waterspouts were visible. Lightning flashed white as it split the sky with an enormous crack, and he winced at the unexpected brightness. Aziraphale blinked the afterimage out of his vision. Something was bothering him. He looked back towards the ocean as the lightning flashed again. There. On the shoreline, rocking in the storm swell. 

Oh God no.

He gritted his teeth and pushed forward against the wind. If what he had seen was a trick of his eyes, and he hoped it was, then it was simply an extremely dangerous walk to investigate his moorings. If he was right, then there was no decision. He must help. Aziraphale’s ears hurt dreadfully as the thunder bellowed like an enraged beast. The lightning was close enough to make his hair stand up, and he distantly prayed that his heavy rubber boots might do something in the name of prevention against being smited by the whims of the storm. Fighting the wind, helped by the regular lightning flashes to guide his way, he managed to get close to the rocky beach and what had been just barely visible through the sheets of rain.

Regrettably, his eyesight was apparently dependable. He settled the base of his lantern firmly into the rocks as he knelt beside the sodden pile of seaweed, lightning-fried fishing net, and the naked, pale, blue-tinged human torso emerging face-down from the tangled mess that he had so much hoped he had imagined. Aziraphale fumbled through the soaked hair to find the man’s neck to check for a pulse, but his fingers were too cold to assess anything.

One of the man’s arms was flung loosely to the side, rising and falling limply as the waves battered him. The other hand was tangled in the net. Aziraphale closed his eyes for a moment to center himself, then pulled out his pocketknife to start cutting away the ruined net. Either the man was already drowned, in which case his body should be kept safe for identification and the closure of his loved ones, or he was alive and needed immediate medical care. So that the possibility of life didn’t shift into the guarantee of death, Aziraphale needed to cut him free and get him to the house. He very carefully did not think about if he was handling a corpse, as his blade sliced away the fried nylon fibers. 

Teeth chattering with chill, Aziraphale fell into a kind of mindlessness as he meticulously cut the man free. The netting was far too tight, having shrunk when it was hit by the lightning, and he did not wish to cut the poor fellow to pieces along with what must have been truly Hellish bindings. He lifted the freed wrist away and winced internally at the burns branded into the skin. Some of the metal on one of the floats must have been in contact at the time of the strike, and it was an ugly wound. He couldn’t imagine how much that must have hurt. There was something strange about the man’s fingers, but he dismissed it until later. 

The rest of the job was a bit easier, and he made good progress until he came down past the man’s ribcage and he stopped moving in shock. He set down his knife and wiped his eyes. It barely helped, as the rain was relentless, but he was obviously hallucinating. He took a breath that he couldn’t hear over the screaming wind, and slid a hand down the man’s back to confirm by touch how smooth, cold skin transitioned into the slick hardness of scales. 

This wasn’t a human at all. It was a monster of some kind, or a wickedly unethical genetic experiment.

Aziraphale didn’t move. A wave, higher than the others, soaked him to the thighs. The stormwater was crowned with stiff peaks of seafoam, he noted distantly, another sign that the worst of the hurricane had passed. The swell lifted the freed arms of the creature and they swayed as limply as seaweed as its head knocked against him and settled back down when the water retreated. The yellow light of the emergency lantern shone gamely through the storm. The hand with the burned wrist was close enough to the lantern now that the taloned nails and the webs between each finger were now visible. 

Aziraphale picked up his knife.


	2. The Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Humans see the surface. Welcome to the _real_ Atlantic ocean.

_Stormtime, Almost Coldtime_

Crawley sang the peace-traveling song as he rose into the brighter waters closer to the surface. He was a bit hungry, but hunting would have to wait until he was done. He had hoped to stop and rest already, but one of the whale matriarchs had led their pod onto their next feeding grounds a bit earlier this year because of the many surface storms, so he had to pass on their news.

He flared his fins at the usual elevation to hold his position and sang the announcements from the colder currents about the krill. He sang about the newest surface storm coming in from the warmer seas, and those that had already been caught in it and had now stopped swimming. He sang their names in the language they had spoken, then repeated in the general whistles, and again in the formal full-throated whale moans, that they might fall in peace to their next life.

Crawley paused, a little irritable. He hated it when most of his news was about food and death. Plus the formal language hurt his throat after so many repetitions. He filled his gills a few times and continued. He sang about the heavy currents, and directions to one of the greater fallen, a whale whose corpse was drifting further out to sea, and still had much nourishment to give before it fully sank. 

A pod of dolphins circled him, and Crawley was careful not to show his distaste. Capricious bullies, they were. His status should render him free from petty abuse, but it was a better idea not to press. He repeated his messages in the chirps and whistles of their language. One of them blew bubbles in acknowledgement, and another chittered about the seasons’ schools of cod, shrinking even more than had been feared. The damned had taken many. Crawley stretched out his arms with fins spread in courteous gratitude for the news, and bowed his head so that the long hair of a messenger covered his face in mourning for those that had been stolen from Allmother by the split-finned damned of the dry land.

By the time he pushed his hair out of his eyes again, the pod was gone. “Fuckfins.” he muttered low. He flicked his eyes around, but he was pretty sure no one had heard. A bit louder than necessary, Crawley sang the gossip from lower down. A newly-hatched mer had grasped a bone of one of the damned corpses, and so was confirmed to have been redeemed. He sang the tune of thankfulness to Allmother who had brought their spirit home and congratulations that they had regained their fins. 

The redeemed creeped him out, personally, carrying around the talismans of their past lives. Why would you be proud that you had once been so terrible that you had lost your fins and lived human? Sure, you had eventually come home, but if you had been washed ashore once, who was to say that you wouldn’t go dry again?

He was losing focus. He was so hungry. Finrot. 

Crawley sang the concluding double-repeat trills requesting news and waited. Purrs and thumps from a dozen species came back. Requests for a repeat of the directions. A rumor, tentative, about a patch of thickwater spreading from the land, foul-smelling. Reports on the speed of the coming storm, expected here before the surfacelight faded. A long scraping echoed and he respectfully sang back the requested information and thanks. The traditional chorus returned to him in the common whistles, along with his title, and Crawley smiled in private pride, even after half a lifetime of hearing it.

_May the current catch you, messenger._

Crawley waited a bit longer, then gave the low throat-drumming of completion. He impatiently clicked a hunting song and all of the smaller fish scattered. Best of luck, because he was fast. He flexed his talons, flicked his tail, and started the chase.

Before the surfacelight changed direction, Crawley was finishing his meal. He cupped the remnants politely in his palms and sang his thanks, then the low whistle that signaled he was again acting as messenger. A few bold shrimp, clearly lost from their school, gathered quickly in his hands to eat what was left. Feeling refreshed from the break and the food, he gave his news in their strange hiccup-hissing dialect, being careful with his pronunciation. They had little to report in turn, other than trepidation about the seasons’ storms, and gave the circular wave of antennae of gratitude. Crawley wished them luck, spilled them out of his palms gently and swam on his way. 

He was one of the few who could tolerate the vertical shifts through the water, with his species able to live in the pressure of the deep blue, although not the black, and comfortable all the way up to the surface. With a knack for languages, a good memory, and a bit of charm, he had been lucky enough to be a messenger for many years now, and his hair was now long enough to trail past his dorsal fins as a mark of the honor. He had never garbled a message, broken hunting protocol, or refused information. Even to the fucking self-righteous gillgrits of deep below, or the flutterfins of the tideline sandshallow species. 

It was a lonely job, being a messenger, but he was welcome everywhere, and the freedom was worth everything. 

A shadow distracted him and he looked upwards swiftly. The toothed ones were sacred to Allmother, sure, always swimming, and leaving no bones when they fell and returned to her, but he was very much uninterested in being eaten today. He tried to disguise his relief when he saw who it was, but the exceedingly slow blink from the approaching massive leathery sea turtle implied that he hadn’t been successful. Crawley gave the expected flare of fins, snapping them shut a bit too soon to be polite. He had known this turtle since he was a few days hatched, and they had been teasing each other for decades. 

The turtle, nameless as they all were, pulled close and tilted their shell towards him. Sighing, Crawley clicked in agreement and latched on with one hand. They pulled away swiftly, even Crawley’s long tail not having the pure power of a full-grown leather turtle swimming. Crawley scritched with his free hand carefully. He knew all of the good spots, and a few pleased bubbles escaped from the turtle’s mouth when Crawley removed a small barnacle. Munching his snack, Crawley switched hands to get the other side.

Turtles didn’t speak to those outside their species, communicating only in gestures. They breathed air, and their grunts and bubbles couldn’t be duplicated by anyone with gills. Instead of news, they simply showed things to messengers, and would offer a ride to anyone with fingers in exchange for shell scratches. The rest was nice, and any young mer rude enough to refuse would be scolded fiercely. There was much wisdom to be gained from scratches on leather. Turtles survived almost any injury, and their scars told stories about the dangers they had seen, to anyone clever enough to notice.

Crawley whistled his news, but his friend only accelerated in response. He gripped with both hands and tucked his fins in close. Something was wrong.

The turtle slowed and tilted, paddling to keep in place, and Crawley flicked his fins to swim up and past. He snarled. Just ahead, the huge drifting snarl of dull-white strands near the waters’ surface was filled with panicked fins and eyes. A thiefnest, left by the damned. Often the thiefnests were near their boats, and pulled in whoever they captured, stealing them away never to return. Sometimes they were left adrift, slowly killing those who tangled in them. A slightly better death than being stolen, but that was little comfort to those trapped. They were dangerous to everyone, but much less so to those with fingers. 

At the very top was a younger turtle of the same species as his friend. As Crawley bared his fangs, the turtle beat their two free paddles, dragging itself and most of the sunken tangle up to the surface to gulp down some air before sinking again in exhaustion. Crawley filled his gills and clenched his fists. The rest of the fish could wait, but it was a terrible death for a turtle to drown. They would need to be freed first. It would be risky, but what choice was there, really?

* * *

Hours later, Crawley was regretting being hatched. The young turtle and many of the others were free, their struggles diminishing when Crawley whistled that he was a messenger, but there were so many still tangled up, and the currents were stronger and much more erratic as the surface-storm came closer. Others had already stopped swimming, wrapped too tightly for too long. Crawley untwisted a stubborn snarl, and another bruised fish struggled out and away. Eyes on the next trapped fish, Crawley swept his tail to go forward and met resistance. 

Cold with horror, Crawley looked down. Strands of thiefnest looped insidiously around his tailfins. He swallowed and filled his gills. There were only a few. He could free himself easily from a few. He curled his tail in to get his hands on the white lines crossing his black scales, but almost immediately was flipped upside down by a massive undercurrent. Facing the surface, now hazy with froth and tossed flotsam, Crawley’s blood seemed to pound in his ears. 

The surfacestorm was here, and so was he. 

He twisted to get his hair out of his eyes, and his arm was pulled back, looped thoroughly by the tough strands. Crawley choked back his fear. He could still get out of this. He just needed to get safely deeper, away from the tossing currents and waves of the surfacestorm, and he could very carefully free himself, either alone or calling for help.

A few hard-bubbles were attached to the thiefnest, floating on top of the waves. Most of the deadly strands were still well-sunk, but as long as those were holding up the edge, he knew he would never be able to go deep. Encumbered by the snarled strands, Crawley floundered as clumsily as a hatchling to reach the first one. It was cold and uncomfortable to touch, with a ring of shiny smooth material around it that kept the thiefnest attached. The waves worked against him, yanking it almost out of his grasp, as he scrabbled at it before pulling it tight against him to work on tearing it loose.

His skin prickled. The world went white. If Crawley screamed, he didn’t hear.

* * *

Pain.

Water and air. Cannot move. Pain.

Floating. Detritus floats. Those who stop swimming either fall or float, and nourish the living, until it all goes around again.

Pain. 

Time passing, or not passing. Floating. Water and air. Cannot move. Noise. 

Rocks. Washed ashore. Noise. Trash washes ashore, if Allmother finds it unworthy. Please. Why wasn’t he dead? Please. 

There was light. He could move a little. Pain. He was breathing air.

Someone was nearby. Please help. He screamed in every language he knew. Maybe they would kill him quickly so that he could return home and be hatched again.

_I suspect that you and you alone are responsible for the myths about sirens, you beautiful thing. Either that or banshees. Possibly demons. I can’t hear myself think!_

Heat. Pain. Someone was giving him food. 

_Please eat. It’s fish broth so I hope it’s alright. Yes. Just a little more? No?_

Light. Hands petting him. He was being lifted. He was so heavy. His eyelids were so heavy. 

_I am so sorry that this happened to you. Sssssh. I will help you, I promise._

It was too bright, and it was hot, and it was dry, and everything hurt, and he couldn’t move, and he couldn’t see. 

_Stop dislodging the towels. It’s a task and a half keeping you alive without you also drying up into a husk, my dear._

He was lifted again. He wanted to go back to sleep. Coolness. He was breathing water. His arm bumped against something and the agony made him writhe. He bumped up against something on the other side. It was a very small hollow filled with water. 

He was trapped in this smooth slippery tidepool, and there was no current, and no singing. And the only sound was his own screaming echoing back to him, and the low voice that made no sense, and hands that were firm and very warm. He was trapped.

_I know it hurts. Don’t be afraid, my dear. I am going to take care of you._

And it still hurt, and the world was terrible and strange, but the low voice kept murmuring to him with words he didn’t understand, the hands were strong and gentle, and Crawley wasn’t afraid.


	3. The Struggle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Panic, physiological challenges, and sleep deprivation. Aziraphale is having a very difficult few days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to Aziraphale's POV

_September 2nd-5th, 1996_

It had been days. Aziraphale felt like his eyes were full of sand. There was still no electricity, and he was only running the generator for a few hours at a time to ration out the fuel. 

He had thought that the first night and day would be the worst, as it passed excruciatingly slowly. The stumbling endeavor of carrying the soaked body through the wind and rain in the dark had been terrible, his strength thankfully up to the strain of lifting five meters of dense muscled tail, but barely. Getting the creature into the house, finding the unsteady flutters of a stuttering pulse, then the mad panic of the first few hours of injury triage. The creature had been entirely unresponsive, but as long as it stayed alive, Aziraphale kept working. The creature’s pulse had finally steadied somewhat as dawn broke in overcast gray bars of faded sunshine into the kitchen, where the creature lay on the tile floor. The tail was long enough to extend into the front hall, multiple fins folded limply. 

The horrible burns on the creature’s wrist were cringe-inducing, but what worried Aziraphale more were the long fractals of discolored markings, visible on the incredibly pale skin, extending down the arm and through the torso, disappearing into the dark scales of the lower body. Aziraphale’s faint memory of another fisherman’s scars had come back to him as he examined them, and he applied burn cream as generously as his moderate first aid kit’s supplies would allow. 

What terribly bad luck for the poor thing, to be struck by lightning even beneath the waves. He knew that it happened-enough fish washed ashore after every hurricane to make it obvious. Still, the multiple fins and well-muscled body of the creature implied a deeper pelagic habitat. What unfortunate timing, to be near the surface during an electrical storm.

The other wounds had revealed themselves as Aziraphale strained his limited medical knowledge. Deep bruises indicated by damaged and discolored scales, likely from knocking against drifting objects in the waves, then the rocks of shore. Reddened-edged lacerations from the net cutting into the poor thing, badly mangling one of the smaller fins. It was possible there were other injuries, but without extensive equipment and a very understanding hospital, there was no way to find out. 

The bandages had to be kept dry, even the water-resistant ones that he habitually bought for his own needs, and he plastic-wrapped them to be safer. Then Aziraphale wanted to kick himself as he noticed the fins and tail-scales drying to crisped edges. He worked with aquatic life professionally, and he wasn’t keeping this fish wet? Seawater-soaked towels were pressed into service, wrapped carefully around fins and tucked along pale limbs. 

The creature seemed to be breathing air, more or less steadily, although pink-edged slits along its torso suggested gills. This dichotomy confused his scientific mindset, until he had lifted an eyelid to check for signs of concussion, and had found a slit reptilian pupil. Ah. A sea-snake of sorts, but with the gills and lower torso of a fish. An ontological mystery. The discovery of two separate heartbeats had reinforced the working hypothesis of a hybrid fish, which also answered the question on how the poor thing had survived the initial lightning strike that usually caused cardiac arrest in humans. 

Well, he wasn’t truly an ichthyologist, but even if he was, it was more important to be a worthwhile human being than a scientist, and that meant that this creature deserved at least the chance to live. It was not a human man like he had first assumed, but he swore to Heaven that this being was under his care nevertheless. His muttered prayers might not mean anything to the patient, but he had faith, damaged as it was, and a loving God might help him keep his guest in the land of the living. At the very least, it wouldn’t hurt. 

Too exhausted to think too hard about the philosophical implications of having a hurt inhuman being in his home, he had woken up abruptly from a short accidental doze at his kitchen table by a piercing scream that seemed to rattle the windows. 

The second day had been so much worse. The creature didn’t seem conscious, although their eyes flickered open occasionally, and their voice! Aziraphale didn’t have close neighbors, but he was sure that the creature could be heard all the way to town if the poor thing wasn’t weak and injured. The cool skin that he remembered was now flush with unhealthy heat, and although the burns didn’t seem to be obviously worse, the bruising had discolored over the past couple of hours, and several of the lacerations were swollen with infection. 

Aziraphale eventually put on his workshop ear defenders so that he could think, and also because he was quite sure that he had already lost at least some of his hearing. Even through the acoustic muffling, the poor creature’s cries were heartwrenching. 

The entirety of the second day felt like a battle. The kitchen was entirely soaked, as Aziraphale struggled to keep his patient wet, but the new bandages dry. He babbled endlessly to the poor soul, hoping that perhaps the sound of his voice might be soothing, even if they didn’t understand him. 

He nearly cheered when his patient took a few sips of broth that evening, cradled securely at an angle that Aziraphale hoped would keep the patient from choking. The fever had only increased as the day wore on, and his patient had begun to tremble. At first Aziraphale had thought it was entirely due to the fever, although as he reapplied burn salve to the jagged Lichtenberg figures that marked the path of the lightning, he worried about nerve damage. 

His patient seemed to drift in and out of awareness, but the trembling persisted at a low level throughout the night, and Aziraphale murmured gently to them about what he knew of physical therapy, absurd as the idea might seem, in conjunction with a mythological being in his kitchen. A mythological being that was too sick to cry anymore, but tucked their face into his shoulder when he tried to coax another spoonful of broth into their mouth. 

Aziraphale knew he was a bit of a soft touch, but he defied anyone to not have their heart melt at such a helplessly sweet gesture from someone shaking uncontrollably with injury and illness. He set the bowl aside, his overtired soul too sentimental to resist, and simply cuddled the poor dear, too afraid to administer human medication, but hopeful that at least a bit of gentleness might be a comfort. 

It was a very long night.

The dawn of the third day, once he had braced himself and desperately hoped that lifting the patient wouldn’t immediately kill them, had taken them both from the kitchen floor to the bathtub. Even if his guest did have lungs, it seemed at least worth a try to submerge them, both to cool them off and to see if breathing seawater would help. 

His shoulders ached from the dozen trips to the shore with buckets to fill the bathtub with seawater, and then from the strain of carrying his guest. The chill made his fingers sting, but once he had carefully let his guests’ head slip beneath the water-and wasn’t that a strange moment of panic in itself-the delicate gills had opened and the poor soul settled somewhat comfortably in the cramped confines of the porcelain. Aziraphale sighed in relief. He was barely keeping his guest alive, but at least this had been the right choice.

Aziraphale’s head jerked up from where he had let it rest against the lip of the bathtub in exhaustion. He clumsily rubbed his eyes and forced himself to his feet. A few trips back and forth were enough to rig up the bathroom into some semblance of an aquatic ICU. The side table from the hallway made a reasonable surface for most of the medical supplies, and he wrestled it as close as he dared to the bathtub and hoped he wouldn’t drench the remaining rolls of bandages with a clumsy elbow. His guests’ tail was far too much to fit into the tub, but he managed to assemble a kind of scaffolding of rolled tarps and towels along with the largest bucket in his possession, to rest the massive tailfins into. 

The rest of the morning went by in a blur, as Aziraphale changed bandages, adjusted tail scaffolding, and, possibly possessed by the spirit of the doting uncle he had once aspired to be, braided his guests’ hair so it wouldn’t get too horribly tangled. After a standing lunch of a granola bar, Aziraphale replaced the water in the tub, bucket by trudged bucket. Yawning uncontrollably, he carefully strained out the various flotsam, and judiciously pulled and replaced the stopper to not disturb the patient too badly.

Sometime in the late afternoon, Aziraphale finished the second water change, and took the hourly status check of his patient’s condition. Pulse was steady, and had been for over a day now. Heart rates seemed unchanged, if a bit faster than his own. Being submerged seemed far more comfortable for the poor dear, and at some point, they had tucked their unhurt hand under their head like a sleeping child. Their gills fluttered with each breath of water, the ruffled pink edges resembling flower petals. The burned wrist was kept out of the water with an incredibly ugly, yet effective, flotation system of ziplock bags and medical tape.

Unless something drastic changed, his guest was in stable condition, and likely to live. The relief took him out at the knees, and Aziraphale slumped against the tub, giggling hysterically. They would live. Oh thank God, they would live. That made everything worthwhile, including the fact that Aziraphale felt as if he was about to die. He was running off of adrenaline, snack food, and maybe an hour of sleep collectively over the past three days. 

With a huge amount of effort, Aziraphale levered himself to his feet. The rubber boots he had not taken off since that first foray out into the storm seemed heavier than ever. 

He stumbled the few steps across the hall into the bedroom he had dearly missed, and collapsed flat onto his unused bed. He was too tired to get under his blankets, but he pulled off his ear defenders roughly and tossed them aside. He hoped vaguely that if his guest needed him, that he would hear them. All he needed was an hour or so, he reasoned muzzily. Then he dropped into unconsciousness like a tree under an axe.

* * *

Aziraphale blinked awake, feeling as if he were as old as the Earth, thirst at the forefront of his thoughts. He whined and tried to go back to sleep, tired body still limp as a wrung-out towel. The bedroom was quiet for a long moment before he groaned and lurched off the bed, stumbling into the kitchen to get a drink. 

He pawed at the unresponsive dry tap for a moment, blinking against the golden sunshine streaming through the slats in the boards that were still up on his windows, before grabbing one of the bottles of water he had bought in preparation for the storm. He drained it and tiredly opened another, head still fuzzy with a near-overwhelming fatigue. Why hadn’t he started his post-storm cleanup? It wasn’t like him to be quite so irresponsible, he wondered dully. 

Aziraphale took another gulp of water with a somewhat uncouth exhalation of relief. He looked around his dim kitchen, more details percolating through as he awoke more fully. The filthy floor hosted piles of wet cloth reeking of silt. He grimaced and surveyed the cluttered countertop. Had he not even washed a dish? It was like he had regressed into some sort of disgusting proto-bachelorhood. He yawned hugely and took a step towards the kitchen table, covered in the gutted remains of his first-aid kit. Something squished under his boot. He looked down at the clump of seaweed, and remembered.

Aziraphale would have put his sprinting time against any Olympian with how fast he careened from the kitchen to the bathroom. How could he have forgotten? He had been asleep for half a day at least, and his poor helpless guest might be suffering.

He only barely avoided sliding down the hallway into oblivion by slamming a hand against the bathroom doorframe. He was halfway into the room with a checklist of medical tasks in his head before he looked up and stopped midstep. His guest was awake. 

They were staring at him, trembling slightly, head leaning against the edge of the bathtub and taloned hands frozen in the act of removing the plastic flotation apparatus from their wrapped wrist. Aziraphale was abruptly very aware that he was looming over the bathtub, blocking the only possible exit. The poor soul must be very rightly terrified as well as in pain. He gave an awkward smile, trying to be as nonthreatening as possible. The gesture backfired as his guest copied him, showing needle-sharp fangs. Right. Maybe he wasn’t the only one capable of doing damage here. 

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “I mean you no harm, my dear.” he tried. His guest gave no indication of understanding. The terrifying smile had faded, and he couldn’t read their facial expression.

Aziraphale, in the part of himself that was still screaming hysterically whenever he thought too much about his guests’ as-of-yet-unknown species, noted the shades of gorgeous metallic coppers and golds shimmering outwards in lovely coronas from the narrow black pupils. There was no evidence of any white in the membrane, just shining golden sclera split by the dark line at the center, like a deep river running through a desert.

His houseguest made a noise like a skidding rubber boot, followed by an inhumanly rapid series of multitonal clicks. Aziraphale blinked. His guest stared at him. After a long moment, they gave an interrogative whistle. 

Aziraphale took a long breath. “Very well then.”

He held out his free hand, empty fingers hopefully being an indication of peace. Keeping eye contact, he lifted the bottle of water he still held to his own mouth and took a performative sip. His guest chittered and clicked, and their slitted pupils widened for a moment then shrank back into thin lines. 

Walking very slowly forward, Aziraphale knelt down beside the bathtub and offered the bottle. The wide golden eyes flickered between the bottle and his face, but his guest, aside from their slight trembling, did not move. The sound of their combined breathing nearly echoed in the silence, along with the faint splashes of the water as his guests’ smaller fins fanned out.

Aziraphale sighed. Well, food was likely a higher priority, anyway. He turned to set the bottle of water on the table that held the rest of the medical supplies, then stiffened into immobility at a cold touch to his neck. His guests’ skin was chilled, and very smooth, and the curious touch only lasted a moment before the cool fingers were pulled away. Aziraphale exhaled slowly, adrenaline making his pulse jump, and slowly turned back to his guest.

All that was visible above the lip of the bathtub was a pair of dilated golden eyes and damp copper hair. The strong tail, ragged fins, and long limbs were curled and tucked as much as possible into the water. Little twitches marked an obvious desire to include the tail with the rest of his guests’ body, and after a long moment, eyes still locked, a trembling, faintly iridescent arm reached out and attempted to tug the main fins closer, but stopped with a shriek of pain. 

Ears ringing with the high pitch and volume, Aziraphale lunged forward to lay a callused hand over his guests’ webbed fingers. “Ssssssshhhhhh” he soothed helplessly. Keeping his fingers firm, he gently repositioned the tail with his free hand, curving the long fins back inside the large bucket of seawater on the floor. Like he had a hundred times and more over the past few days, but awkward with a single hand, he cupped water to splash over the scales. 

And now, at the worst possible time, his long habit, reinforced by solitude and days of anxious caretaking, came to the forefront, and he began to babble. “First of all, you’ll tie yourself into a knot, and while I have no doubt that you are enviously flexible, you are currently a smorgasbord of injuries. Let the no doubt appalling pain be your guide there, my dear. Secondly, I have spent a fair amount of effort and ingenuity attempting to keep your scales from desiccating, and would appreciate your cooperation. Thirdly-oh my dear please no.”

The shrill whimpers of pain had graduated into piteous keening, only made worse because his guest was so obviously trying to smother them. The fingers beneath his own were twitching weakly. Aziraphale lifted his hand and his guest folded their arms close against their chest, sliding their upper body under the water. The sounds of pain were cut off, replaced by low burbling, but after only a few moments, the pink gills flattened into slits and his guest stiffly contorted their head above the surface, hacking out water and gasping for air. 

Still on his knees, Aziraphale rocked back onto his heels and assessed the situation. His guest was in pain, and only growing more so, but would not stay below the water, even though they had seemed to prefer it when they were semiconscious. After a long moment, the solution came to him, and he wanted to weep. The seawater in the tub had not been changed in hours. The oxygen levels must be negligible, and the poor dear must be trying not to smother, but lacked the strength to keep themselves above the surface. He was killing his injured guest, and there was no way to apologize. His mother would have been ashamed of him. Aziraphale bit the inside of his cheek. He could dwell on it later, when a helpless being was not slowly suffocating to death because of his neglect. 

A ululating whistle, fading out into breathlessness, caught his attention. His guest had pulled their injured arm over the lip of the tub just enough to be somewhat stable, and was reaching out a taloned hand towards him. 

If he had retained any doubt about his guest being a fully sentient being, it wouldn’t have persisted past the pleading brows above those tired otherworldly eyes. He reached back and clasped the webbed fingers, the talons prickling ticklishly on his skin. His guest tugged. Shuffling forward on his knees, Aziraphale obeyed the directive, and his hand was released. 

Aziraphale had been blessed with many experiences and adventures in his life, but nothing had ever been more magical than the curious exploration of his face, hair, and the collar of his shirt by the delicately trembling hand that now trailed carefully over his cheek. The talons were even more ticklish over the unshaven beginnings of his blond beard. 

His giggle startled both of them. 

Aziraphale tried to keep it under control, but the stress of the last few days caught up with him, and he couldn’t help his laughter, and then, mortifyingly, his untidy snorts. Once he finally managed to calm down a little, wiping his streaming eyes, his guest looked utterly stupefied. He petted their slender arm gently. “My dear, I acknowledge that our communication is limited, and this outburst would be difficult to explain in any case, but I assure you that I will do everything I can to get you restored to health and back in the ocean.” 

His guest cocked their head, long hair trailing in copper rivers over their shoulders, and lifted a brow with such an obvious display of sass it transcended language. Charmed to his toes, Aziraphale grinned and did his best to mime putting something into his mouth and chewing. His guest brightened, black fins lifting and fanning out to display lovely crimson and silver striations, and put a hand to their abdomen. Aziraphale nodded encouragingly. “You must be just famished. I’ll get you fed, and then I’ll help you heal.” 

The wet and torn bandage on his guests’ wrist, still trailing the wet plastic bags, caught his attention and he absentmindedly reached back to pull his little stool closer. Aziraphale glanced up at his guest for a moment and gestured, probably not very usefully, at the limb, then at himself and the supplies on the table. His guest chirped. “I’m going to take that as permission, my dear.” he sighed. He was well-practiced by now, and the new ointment, bandage, plastic, and tape came together efficiently.

Aziraphale gently released the limb once he was finished, deciding that new seawater and reapplication of other medical necessities could wait until after a meal. He got his feet under him, but paused when his guest reached out to tug at his sleeve. He waited, and the webbed fingers dithered, his guests’ face creasing with frustration, before carefully folding their cold hand around his and giving a weak squeeze. Aziraphale’s heart felt full, and he returned the pressure before bustling off to get both of them fed. 


	4. The Damage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being saved by one of the damned is bizarre. Almost as much as what comes after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crawley's POV

_Unknown Surfacetime_

No one had told Crawley that the damned could be beautiful. 

Unfortunately, along with their fins, they were apparently stripped of all rational language, other than the low sounds that meant nothing to him. He had tried literally every language that he knew, and he knew that he was slurring, and his words kept mixing together no matter how hard he concentrated, but his beautiful savior had shown no understanding of anything he said. He had whistled so carefully, too, even though his head ached and he couldn’t seem to stop shaking. 

His body was a mess, and it hurt to move, but his savior had made several visits, each with an object that held water, and had replaced the liquid in the small tidepool with water that he could breathe, that tasted a bit dirty, but still of home. After the sixth trip, once he had filled his gills a few times and felt better for it, he had reached out and explored the strange membranes that his savior was wrapped in, and they had allowed it, folding themselves low and close. 

They had hair all over, it seemed, and their skin was very soft, once he had realized that the surface membranes were not attached to them and could be moved. Crawley had never seen anyone so lovely, with white hair close to their head, coiled in soft loops, and round, brightwater eyes like the sunlight through shallows during Warmtime.

His savior was able to communicate a little using gestures, and seemed more concerned with Crawley’s condition than his fangs and talons. The damned were stripped of their fins and weapons, and every time his human savior smiled or gestured, the smooth teeth and blunt fingers contrasted with his own sharpness. If he hadn’t been so hurt, he could have gutted them, perhaps, although it would have been a fight. Crawley had attempted to tug at the object holding the water during one of the trips, and the sheer weight of it had shocked him. Everything was heavier on land, apparently. 

He stared, impressed, each time his savior lifted one of the heavy things, muscles in their arms shifting. His savior was so much thicker than Crawley. Courteous, too, as they brought the water-filled object containing several small fish swimming inside, perfect for snacks. They also pulled a strange membrane across as some form of temporary nest-making, every time Crawley fell asleep. Apparently being spared from death, even if he was trapped on land, meant that Crawley had a hard time staying awake. 

His savior didn’t seem to mind, even when Crawley had nodded off with his head on their shoulder while they smeared a strange cold substance on his bruises. It left them tingling, but thankfully numb and pain-free for a while. Crawley had woken up much later, with his savior still in place, patiently waiting, hand cupped around his head protectively. 

That gentle smile had been the most glorious thing to awaken to. 

They left for a time, returning after one of Crawley’s frequent naps with another group of fish, tactfully gathering the remnants of the previous meals that Crawley had stashed out of sight in a little pile. The light slowly faded from the hole up above, on the side of the cave where the tidepool was, and his savior did multiple trips again with the water-filled objects, replacing the stale water with more that Crawley could breathe. 

They folded themselves next to the tidepool again, having done something strange that made a small sun emerge and remain above, filling the cave with light. After the usual gestures and expressions, Crawley was able to interpret what they wanted, and offered his burned arm, feeling unsettlingly shy. His savior beamed and spoke to him in those same low, cheerful tones, still unintelligible, but Crawley learned languages professionally, and some of those sounds were beginning to be familiar. He could appreciate the lovely voice in which they were spoken as well, and he tried repeating some of them, apparently not very accurately, if his saviors’ laughter was any measure. 

They grinned at him, carefully working on Crawley’s burnt wrist, and released it with a huge yawn, mouth opening very wide and blunt teeth on full display. It was fascinating, and he was already reaching out to poke the cute little pink tongue before he realized that was incredibly rude by the standards of literally every species he had ever met and he needed to get a hold of himself.

His savior closed their mouth and blinked slowly, and the darkness around those pretty eyes suddenly made sense. Crawley had no idea how many days that he had been here, but if his savior had been caring for him long, they would be tired. Crawley reached up and petted his saviors’ cheek before he could talk himself out of it, then tucked his hands by his own face and tilted, whistling the tune for sleep.

His savior squinted at him, then understanding dawned, and they whistled the worst pronunciation of sleep that Crawley had ever heard. Crawley laughed, clutching his ribs with his good hand when that movement hurt, and his savior came close, solicitous as always. They stared into his face with something like hope, and Crawley repeated the gesture and whistled more slowly. They echoed it much better, and Crawley smiled in tired excitement. There was a short pause, and his savior whistled a third time, doing the vertical headnodding that seemed to mean approval, then spoke in their low voice. 

_Sleep. Sleep?_

Crawley repeated it as best he could, but even he could tell that he was nowhere close, and he slumped under the water in disappointment. 

His saviors’ hand dipped under the surface and gently patted him before rising up and away. The small sun blinked into darkness, and the cave was quiet. Crawley curled himself as comfortably as possible into the small tidepool, and slept.

* * *

The days passed, with his savior picking up several whistle tunes of language, and Crawley able to move a bit better and sleep less. 

Crawley could always hear them coming, but his savior always tapped the side of the cave entrance in a particular rhythm when they were about to enter, a set of five. Tap tap-tap TAP tap. It seemed to be amusing to them, for some reason that Crawley couldn’t fathom, when he always gave the double-chirped greeting in welcome. 

After today’s second greeting, when the light was fading, his savior removed the material from his bad wrist and assessed it carefully, then released it without adding more. Crawley examined it closely. The injury was still very sore, but was clean and already in the beginning stages of healing. He wiggled his fingers experimentally. He would scar, but he was already scarred all over, so what was another? He would get some respect from the turtles, perhaps.

He whistled a tune of gratitude and grinned, but it faded quickly when he saw the expression on his savior’s face. They gave a thin smile, touching their own wrist as emphasis, but their pretty brightwater eyes were sad. Crawley reached out and touched their hand, careful of his own talons, and chirruped soothingly. His savior covered his hand with the other, patting the back very gently. They made small noises, their voice even lower than usual, and Crawley fought down his frustration with the stupid human language.

_You’re next door to recovered, and looking well, my beautiful guest. If you were a mere fish, I might have already set you loose with a radio tag. But you’re something special, my dear. If I keep you longer, I fear I will keep finding excuses to do so._

Crawley leaned his head against the edge of the small tidepool and tried to smile as encouragingly as he knew how. 

It didn’t work. His savior’s lower lip started to tremble and they pulled away to cover their eyes. Crawley pushed himself as far out of the tidepool as possible to get close, finally able to use both hands, and tried to pet them calm, cooing like he had when he was very young and had to help watch the hatchlings. His savior took a very deep breath, then another, and seemed to settle. 

Crawley preened. He was the best at this. 

His savior dropped their hands from their face and Crawley stared in amazement. Their eyes had made water. He leaned forward and tasted a droplet off of their furry cheek. They stiffened but didn’t move otherwise, and he licked his lips. Not quite as salty as Allmother, but exotically pleasant. 

His savior was staring at him. They were very close. They took another breath, leaned forward, and pressed their mouth against his cheek. It tickled.

The beautiful human took a breath and edged backwards, stammering.

_Oh, I am a scoundrel. If you only knew my thoughts, my dear, you would be horrified. Lovely. Every centimeter of you, you gorgeous, clever darling. I’m a monster. Oh my dear._

His savior nearly leaped to his feet and rushed away and out before Crawley could even get his thoughts together. He didn’t have long to think them either, before the sound of their footsteps was returning and they were kneeling by the tidepool again, face a polite mask. They whistled the tune for touch, and Crawley lifted his arms slowly. 

During his illness, touch had been necessary, and his savior had handled and moved his tail dozens of times. Now they circled his entire body and lifted him out of the water. He chittered in shock and clung to them. With a grunt, his savior stood, shrugged his tail over their shoulder, and with Crawley’s fins barely clearing the ground, they were moving away from the tidepool that had been Crawley’s world for so many days.

It was almost dark, so Crawley could look around without wincing from the brightness, and he was wild with curiosity. The land was of course the domain of the damned, but he was safe with the very best of them, and everything was fascinating. He could see Allmother close, and they were walking towards her.

They went up and over a little bridge like the corals sometimes built, but that made creaking noises as they moved across it, and into a boat. Crawley had never seen the top part of a boat, but the shape matched well enough from what he knew. They were bigger than he had thought they would be. 

There was another tidepool on the boat, filled with water, and his savior lowered him into it as gently as possible. It was not quite so small as the last one, and Crawley twirled inside it a little, flaring his fins. It felt good to stretch. He perked up over the edge while his savior moved the bridge, and after a warning whistle, did something strange to the boat that made a huge noise. Crawley ducked under the water as they began to move. 

Being on a boat was amazing. Once he was accustomed to the noise, Crawley leaned as far up as he could, just to watch. Little lights were visible in the distance, growing dimmer as they went further away from shore, riding on the top of Allmother’s surface. It was fast. He liked it. 

Too soon, the noise faded, and with a rattle, stopped, and so did the boat. Crawley turned towards the sound of his savior’s footsteps as they approached, easily moving with the rocking of the waves. They knelt and stared at him for a moment, before their face creased in the dimness with that same sad smile. Crawley swallowed. He reached for them, not sure what his goal was, but had to cling quickly when he was picked up out of the water again. He was only held in his savior’s arms for a few moments as the beautiful human took three steps, a deep breath, and tossed him off the boat.

Allmother was colder than he remembered, and he floundered awkwardly, tail stiff from being curved with so little movement for so long. He sank quickly, and took a deep gulp of rich water, almost dizzy with how good it was. He stretched and looped around, feeling his fins slowly unkink and respond. He was so happy to be home. 

Crawley looked up through the darkness at the pale shimmer of the surface, his savior’s boat a black outline. Slower than before, he swam up and touched the bottom of the boat, then on an impulse, curved his fingers with intention. Scratching an identifying crosshatch with his talons was easy. He startled, reflexively swimming down when the boat roared with that awful noise again and started to move, trailing bubbles and disturbed currents.

Crawley swam to the surface, beating his tail to lift his upper body up into the air. The boat was going faster, speeding away from him. He whistled the tune for gratitude and listened hopefully for a response. The boat’s roar was steady. He watched it go until he could no longer discern its small light from the others of shore. The joy of homecoming faded.

* * *

It took him far too long to orient himself, and he was certainly swimming slower than he used to. The smell of the currents were still what he remembered, and he was relieved to feel that not too much time had gone by, judging by the temperature. Although his fins responded largely as he wished, his mouth was another matter. It took three attempts before he successfully managed to click his hunting song, and it was nearly morning before he managed to catch a meal. He was still far from his usual waters when he ran out of stamina and had to rest. 

Luck was with him. Well, luck had been with him for some time, he supposed, having survived everything and managing to be rescued by the only worthwhile example of humanity. Still, overhearing the thrumming conversation of a small passing whale pod, only three families, was more than he could have hoped for. The slow, full-throated whale language of the gray knobbly-skinned species was far easier for him to pronounce, and he thankfully hadn’t lost his vocabulary as he asked for a lift. He gratefully latched a hand onto the huge offered fluke and hung on for the ride. Once he had rested a while, he started politely removing the barnacles he came across, more appreciative of the snacks than ever. 

A curious yearling questioned him, and he apologetically mentioned that he had been hurt, and how. The entire pod listened quietly, and the matriarch drifted beside the whale he was riding and offered her flank with a maternal groan. Crawley accepted the honor, carefully beginning his task on her skin as well, being very gentle around her mouth, where several barnacles were clustered. 

He answered her questions about his usual home range, with all the deference due her status. She ordered him to repeat the story of his injury and show his scars to the yearling, and he obeyed meekly, going into detail about the thiefnest, and washing ashore, then the slow recovery, but omitting any mention of his savior. 

The matriarch hummed, and changed course slightly. When Crawley realized that she was guiding them all straight to his home range, detouring from their usual migration route, he clung tightly to her dorsal fin, too grateful to speak. Conversation continued around him as he wrapped his tail securely around the matriarch’s fin and slept.

* * *

The pod surfaced when it was in the middle of brighttime. Once the matriarch had confirmed that Crawley could breathe air, they were all very excited, and he stretched out on top of each of them in turns, carefully scratching all the itches around their blowholes, which were almost impossible for them to soothe themselves. The last dive and slow swim took Crawley home, and he thanked everyone in each family, wishing them luck with the rest of their migration, and confirming his name in case they ever needed a favor from him.

He watched them go, then dived deep. Allmother shifted color from clear, to limpid blue, to deep blue, and he whistled as he swam, calling for a messenger. The deeper he went, the greater the status of whoever he found would be, and his pulse thudded in his ears along with the pressure as he finally stopped at the lowest depth he could tolerate, whistling in the dark. 

He thought it was a trick of his eyes at first, but eventually the eerie glow from far below approached close enough that he could make out the facial scales and neutral expression of Dagon. A viperfish mer, her transparent fangs extended past her lips, and larger bioluminescent dots lined her sides and arms. She was half again as long as he was. Crawley spread his fins in a formal bow, offering her the last barnacle he had saved as a gift. She took it silently and cracked it open in her fingers. Once she was finished, she dropped the rest and stared at him expectantly. 

He stuttered through his explanation of his absence, lifting his arm and turning to show his scars. Dagon listened to his slurred whistles and clicks with a steadily darkening expression, then asked a clarifying question about the surfacestorm in the quick hissing language of the lower-downs. Crawley swallowed and described it in the same language, or attempted to. He didn’t use it often; his reflexes and small movements were noticeably slower, and after several tries, he finally managed a very poor imitation. 

Dagon tilted their head and stared at him for a moment, then asked him to repeat his story, this time with the chest-deep complicated humming the glowing fish of the deep black used exclusively. Crawley winced preemptively and licked his lips, but gave his best attempt. Dagon circled him slowly while he spoke, her long body rippling smoothly. He tried to turn to keep facing her, but she snapped her fangs, and he held his position.

Crawley finished his report. There was a long moment of quiet. 

Dagon’s claws raked painful furrows as she yanked his head backwards, spiny auxiliary fins holding his body away from her as he writhed. He screamed once, then closed his mouth and his eyes tightly as her fangs bit down again and again. With a final tearing pull, she gave a final hiss and released him as he clutched his head, where his scalp throbbed from the rough treatment. His hair was bitten short, uneven lengths marking him as a student messenger. Not the full punishment of being disgraced, but deemed unworthy to serve. He would have to earn the right to grow it again, if he even could.

Dagon watched him as he panted and slowly uncurled. She brushed aside a loose lock of his hair. It slowly sank and she gave him a calm nod, flickered her glow, and swam smoothly down and out of sight. 

Crawley held his palm tight against the worst of the claw-marks until he was certain that he was no longer bleeding. It was dangerous to bleed for too long, especially this deep. Someone was always hungry. He felt numb, inside and out. He had survived everything and come home, only to be judged as unfit and near-worthless. He drifted in the dark for a long time. 

The human wouldn’t have done this to him.

His human had helped. His human had tried their best to communicate, to ask and answer questions. His human had asked permission before touching him, and had respected him enough to wait, the few times he was too tired or sore to endure any contact. 

He carefully felt around his stinging head and very deliberately sliced through the few long strands that had been missed here and there. His talons were just as sharp as they had always been. 

He looked down once, into the deep black that would crush him if he tried to descend. Maybe he would be worthy of those depths in his next life. Until then, his life was his own. Allmother had spared him once, bestowed blessings with the pain when she had smote him. He looked up. If he was no longer able to be who he had been before, then he was someone new, he decided. 

Crowley, short-haired, new-named, and smiling, swam upward towards the light. There was a lot to do, and then he could go home. There was a beautiful human with soft hair and a soft smile there.


	5. The Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ocean is unthinkably large and distantly beautiful. But sometimes it gives you beauty you can hold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale's POV

_October 7th, 1996_

The seabirds were barely awake when Aziraphale cast off and maneuvered his boat out away from his small dock. Everything from the boat to the paint on his house was showing the wear and tear of this storm season, but he wasn’t going to make more work for himself until after the weather service confirmed that the worst was over. He made sure to leave earlier in the morning and come back later so that he didn’t have to see it and didn’t have to think.

It was possible he was just living a single day repeatedly. It’s not as if he would have noticed.

He mechanically set his course for a small sand shoal that was his target for the day, where he would be taking samples of the various molluscs and crustaceans. A young researcher was looking at population and growth rates in comparison with various metal ion concentrations in the surrounding seawater, and so Aziraphale would be carefully gathering small sealed tubes, each with a tiny depth meter, for water samples every 100 meters horizontally, and every 10 meters in depth. 

It was interesting, scientifically, and he might ask for a copy of the paper when it was published, but it was mindnumbingly dull data to gather. Fiddly, too, having to be very careful with his anchor and placement so that he had his location marked correctly. 

He had his work. He would do it well, as a point of pride if not pleasure. He didn’t need anything else.

After a quick confirmation of his location, Aziraphale dropped anchor and then lowered his portable pump over the side to fill the repurposed stock trough he had attached to his deck. He didn’t look at it directly, other than to monitor the water level. He had only brought it on board last month when he had discovered it in the old shed and used it to hold-

Hold his lovely guest, when they needed a ride home. 

Aziraphale firmly stopped thinking about why he had it. The trough had proven useful; it was more difficult to clean than his prior use of buckets, but it was less stressful for the creatures he brought on board. 

The water samples were done easily enough, then he pulled up the first of the crab traps, immediately dumping the chitinous inhabitants into the large trough for counting. His practiced eye could easily identify the various species, but he had to use his calipers to measure the span of each crustacean exactly. One pinched him quite hard and he glared at it. “If you hadn’t taken the bait, you wouldn’t be in the cage, and now here on the boat. The students paid for your dinner, you can at least provide them with some information.” The sound of his voice, raspy from disuse, made him wince, and he shook his head as he carefully wrote down the data. As he finished, he tossed each crab safely overboard from whence it came. 

Lift. Observe. Measure. Confirm data. Aziraphale moved unthinkingly through each task as the day progressed. He hoped to be finished with this particular work by noon, then back home for refueling and to do some net repairs. 

Aziraphale stretched and rotated a shoulder until it gave a low pop, then sighed and started pulling up the last of the traps. He groaned with the effort, as the trap sluggishly ascended. This one was much heavier than the others. He glanced backwards over his shoulder at the water trough, assessing if he needed to let out any of the water before adding in such a large group of crabs. He would hate to have to start catching any escapees that made it out, if he overfilled it. 

He looked forward again just as a clawed hand slapped wetly onto the gunwale and dug into the painted wood. 

Aziraphale screamed and scrambled backwards, releasing the rope and falling painfully. The hand vanished. A few seconds passed with only the steady splash of the wavelets against the hull and the perpetual calling of the gulls. Aziraphale panted where he had sprawled, one hand pressed to his chest in an attempt to keep it from beating out of his body. There was a long scraping noise and the hand reappeared, along with an elbow, a shoulder, and a face he thought he would never see again.

His lovely guest, healthy and recovered, slitted golden eyes wide and happy, chittered at him excitedly, one arm over the ledge and the other holding the rope of his crab trap. Their hair was shorter, damp copper strands drying quickly in the ocean breeze. Aziraphale stumbled forwards without thinking and flung his arms around them as best he could, leaning awkwardly over the wooden gunwale. 

“Oh. Oh my dear.” he choked.

They crooned sweetly in response, nuzzling the side of his face in affection.

* * *

_Late October_

No one cared overmuch about a small fishing boat that stayed out of the way of the main thoroughfares. They met at sunset each day, and Aziraphale’s heart still stuttered each time he heard the shy chirps of greeting from the being who had become his favorite companion. 

He had dug out, after facing the painful memories, the old set of books that had been gathering dust in the back of his closet for years. They were bright, colorful, and laminated, designed as they were for young children. 

“My niece was born deaf.” he murmured absently, spreading the pages open to large illustrations of day and night. A small lantern was enough to see, but not too bright for them to be observed. “My brother Gabriel decided that I was being too indulgent, since we signed together instead of obeying his instructions that she would strictly use lip-reading, and eventually forbade me to see her. I confess that I responded badly to this, and came here to the colonies, oh, over a decade ago now. They never tried to contact me either, so perhaps it was for the best.” 

His friend flared their fins and reached out towards the images on the pages, tapping delicately with one long talon. Aziraphale gestured around them both, at the darkness and crescent moon, then pointed at the cartoon illustration. Facing his friend, he carefully signed ‘night’. They stared at him, and he repeated the gesture. They gave a whistle, which he imitated, repeating the gesture a third time. He saw the moment they understood, pupils dilating and a huge smile displaying their fangs. They signed ‘night’ back to him perfectly, and tugged the book closer, with the images and outlined hands below each one. After that, there was no stopping them.

* * *

_November-Thanksgiving Day_

The phonetics of their species’ languages never really lined up, but their hands, webbed or not, were the same, and they signed, whistled, and gestured to each other more easily every day. Aziraphale brought fruit for his friend, who devoured it with the joy of a child deprived of candy, then dived and returned with the most beautiful bluefin tuna he had ever seen.

* * *

_December-Christmas Day_

The books got wet and eventually ruined, but they served their purpose. Aziraphale almost cried the day they successfully spelled and sounded out to each other, after much trial and error, and he heard an affectionate new whistle for his own name, and learned the one for his friend. “Crowley. It suits you, my dear.” It was the best Christmas gift he had ever had.

* * *

_Late January, 1997_

Installing a partial cover for the water trough was easy, and when no one else was around, Crowley demanded rides onboard, burbling strange watery laughter as Aziraphale pushed his little boat as fast as it would go, zooming about in madcap joy that he would never be able to explain, but wouldn’t have given up for the world. 

Aziraphale almost died an early death from shock when he boarded his boat early in the morning the next day. He was tiredly getting prepared for work until a long arm nudged him on the shoulder in a sleepy greeting from the tank where Crowley had snuck in during the night. After that, Aziraphale kept a thick knotted rope over the port bow, to make the transition easier for his friend.

* * *

_Early March, 1997_

_Much-work-long-day-good-question-help?_ Crowley signed. Aziraphale yawned and nodded, signing back. _Travel-home-food-soon._

They usually spent more time together at their nightly rendezvous, but today’s work had been particularly grueling, and Aziraphale was already leaning sleepily over the side of the boat as it rocked gently in the waves. Crowley didn’t have much trouble keeping his place with his healed fins, and both of his hands waved cheerfully about as he signed. Ordinarily, the fact that he had just learned earlier that evening that his dearest friend was indeed a ‘he’ would have been of far more consequence, although even his tired thoughts avoided why that was the case. 

Crowley was waiting impatiently, his expressive face full of something Aziraphale couldn’t read, before he beat his tail enough to rise higher and get a good handhold on the ledge beside Aziraphale’s aching shoulder. Crowley reached out, careful of his claws as always, and brushed his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair. 

That was new as well. They had never been touch-avoidant, likely because of the forced proximity of how they had met and the attendant caretaking required, but the past few weeks had been notable. Crowley was forever reaching out, endlessly fascinated with everything about him, he had assumed, but Aziraphale couldn’t explain the associated smiles and soft looks, so different from the merman’s curious glee when he discovered something new. 

Aziraphale had been trying very hard to not read anything into it. He reminded himself on a daily basis that their easy camaraderie was miraculous, and that there was endless space for misunderstandings. The fact that he found his friend incredibly compelling in a very particular way was not his friends’ fault. 

His tiredness made it much harder to resist the pleasant touch, and he leaned towards Crowley unthinkingly. The cool fingers rubbed comfortingly through his curls. Crowley hummed in his deep-chested way and rested their heads together. “Zzzzzzzzz” he buzzed. Aziraphale’s name was impossible for him to pronounce, but he could manage the zed through his fangs, and when he was happy, he would buzz the identifier like a flirtatious bumblebee. It was the best nickname that Aziraphale had ever had. 

The wonderful head-scritches slowed, and Crowley’s hand hesitated, then cupped under his chin until they faced each other. Very abruptly, Aziraphale was extremely alert. From this close, his beautiful friend’s golden eyes were enthralling. The slits wavered and widened as the merman’s usual cheeky grin shifted into something soft but afraid. 

Crowley slowly released his chin and bobbed low, keeping himself afloat but releasing his grip on the boat so that his hands were free to sign.

_Male-no-eggs-male-no-eggs-question-child?_ He signed carefully, face very serious.

Aziraphale swallowed, unsure why he was nervous. _Male-female-child. Male-male-no-child._ He signed.

Crowley closed his lovely eyes for a moment, unsurprised but solemn, then met his gaze again intensely. It was almost fully dark now, and the nighttime quiet made the waves seem very loud in comparison. The fluorescent light bulb from the cabin, and the small lantern he had on the deck, brought out the shadows in Crowley’s face. He was so very clearly not human. He was so very beautiful.

Crowley visibly came to a decision. He whistled the tune for touch and rose up out of the water, arms lifted expectantly. Aziraphale responded automatically, circling the lithe torso and hefting him onto the gunwale. It wouldn’t be the first time that Crowley had ridden with him, cheerfully sloshing in the water trough while Aziraphale piloted the boat back to the dock. Aziraphale was stronger now than he had been even as a young man, just from the effort required to lift Crowley in and out of the water so often. 

Aziraphale braced himself and hefted him into his arms. When Crowley asked to accompany him, he didn’t have the heart to refuse. The beautiful black scales curved around his shoulders as Crowley arched his tail out of the waves in assistance. Aziraphale couldn’t suppress a shiver as the crimson-striated fins dripped cold seawater down his collar, and some of the strange solemnity of the moment faded as Crowley snickered at him. 

As usual, Aziraphale lowered him into the trough carefully, but now Crowley’s arms stayed looped around his shoulders. It was a bit brighter on board, and Crowley searched his face in the better light, clinging close. Aziraphale felt incredibly aware of every place they were in contact. He should move away. 

He didn’t move away. 

Crowley gnawed at his lower lip, one of his long canine fangs visible, and Aziraphale’s gaze dropped to watch it in guilty fascination. A moment later he couldn’t see anything. Crowley’s cool hands framed his face to pull him close, and incredibly sharp teeth delicately captured his lower lip. Aziraphale went weak. He dropped to his knees beside the water trough as Crowley held him close, nibbling so very gently at his mouth. 

Some untold time later Crowley pulled back a fraction, nearly gasping. Any fears that Aziraphale might have had about what this might mean to them both were banished at the dreamily dilated pupils and flushed cheeks of his dearest companion. It was an indecently attractive look on him. Aziraphale reeled him back in, finally fisting a hand in that gloriously beautiful hair and kissing him like he had tried to deny to himself that he had dreamed of.

Crowley was entirely limp in his grasp before Aziraphale was even momentarily satisfied. He had cut himself at least once on Crowley’s fangs, but was entirely unbothered by it and had no plans to ever be bothered by it in the future. His sweetheart hissed endearingly into his neck and inhaled his scent while Aziraphale held him. Eventually Crowley recovered enough to curve somewhat upright, his flexible spine moving enticingly under Aziraphale’s fingers.

Aziraphale had never seen anything lovelier in his life, than Crowley’s happily hazy eyes smiling at him under the stars.

Crowley blinked and took a breath, then, very slowly and deliberately, held up his hands between them and made a gesture that had been present in the very first sign-language book that Aziraphale had opened. He made it again, and Aziraphale smiled at his sweetheart even as he began to cry, returning the very simple sign.

_I love you._


	6. The Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Success, and a successor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter, and an outsider POV!

_20 years later  
September 15th, 2016-Stormtime_

Adam Young waved excitedly from the wheel of his skiff and blasted his horn until he was sure he had caught the attention of the utility boat ahead off the port bow. His old mentor was usually busy in the late afternoons, but his news couldn’t wait. He hit the horn once more as he cut the motor and drew up alongside, waves rocking him lightly against the side of the other vessel. He hurriedly put the fender in place and tied the rope to keep them together, yelling until the gray head he was looking for finally came around from the other side of the cabin. His mentor was sweating lightly, but his perpetually split lip looked a bit better. Adam had been giving him chapstick for years, but it never seemed to help. The kind old man constantly looked like he had been recently punched in the mouth.

“Did you hear!?” Adam shouted. 

Aziraphale stared at him, a single silver brow lifting judgmentally. “Given the lack of subject of that sentence fragment, that is actually impossible to know, Adam. This is why the good Lord invented grammar.” His expression held for a moment before he shook his head with a small smile and reached out a granite-callused hand to pull Adam up and aboard. “So tell me what brings you out to visit an old man on your day off, then.”

Adam grinned hugely at him, only the rocking of the deck preventing him from dancing in place. “The president signed it. It happened. The entire area.” he stammered. Aziraphale was abruptly very still. Adam tightened his fingers around Aziraphale’s. This had been his mentor’s dream since well before Adam had known him as a first-year marine biology graduate student. He took a breath and gestured with his free hand towards the East. “The news is all over Twitter. I got a text from Warlock confirming it an hour ago. All of that deep area, with the kelp and the canyons, that you wanted, plus another thousand square miles, is now officially the Northeast Canyons and Seamounts National Monument.” he declared grandly. “The first Atlantic ocean marine preserve. Protected from all human interference including oil drilling, whaling and fishing.” 

Aziraphale’s grip tightened almost to the point of pain, then Adam was yanked forward with a yelp as Aziraphale bear-hugged him in joy. “Oh, thank you for the wonderful news! Oh God…” Adam tried to hug him back, but he would never be as solid as his mentor, who was soft and sturdy, and seemed to effortlessly toss around Adam’s bodyweight without noticing, even at triple his age. There was nowhere for the happiness to go, so they ended up pummeling each other’s shoulders, probably too hard although neither cared, and laughed, before Aziraphale seemed to remember himself and released him.

* * *

There was basically no cell signal offshore, but Adam showed him Warlock’s texts as they sat together in the sun. At one point, Aziraphale had to take off his bifocals to discreetly wipe his eyes, and Adam pretended not to notice. 

Warlock had visited his campus once, along with his politician father who was giving a talk of some kind, and they had been friends ever since. With Aziraphale’s endless data, Adam’s stubbornness, and Warlock’s massive social media following, getting this marine area protected had been a group project of theirs and other folks for years now. So far Warlock had avoided coming out on the waves with them, but Adam was certain he would be talked into it eventually. He was persuasive. If it really came down to it, he would set Aziraphale on him. It was impossible to resist it when Aziraphale’s eyes got all sad at what he considered deprivation, and as far as Adam was concerned, there was no greater deprivation than not being out at sea at all times.

Aziraphale did not tolerate alcohol when piloting, but he agreed to join Adam later along with the others when they celebrated tonight. Already thrilled with an excellent day, Adam eventually got up off of the inverted bucket he had been using as a seat, ready to head out, but stopped when Aziraphale raised a hand. “I will see you shortly, my boy, but I would like to reiterate how much you and Warlock have done, and what it has meant to me.” Adam scuffed his shoe before he could stop himself. It was a habit he’d had since he was a kid, and it came out when he was embarrassed. The older man crinkled at him and leaned back, assessing him with that piercing look that seemed to inspect him down to the atomic level. “This area is very important to me.” he stated abruptly. 

Adam slowly sat. He had never heard Aziraphale’s voice like this before. The old fisherman’s fingers twitched and he cleared his throat. “What are your plans once you defend your thesis, my boy?” he asked. Adam shrugged, then sagged. “My birth dad wants me to come home, my stepdad and my mom just say to follow my heart, but I don’t know.” he mumbled. “I want to stay here. Now that the preserve is here, it should be easier to conduct some of those studies, and there are all of the endangered turtles, and we’re identifying new species at the university almost every week, and no one’s mapped those seamounts yet.” 

Aziraphale looked at him levelly over his bifocals. “There are other oceans. There are other shores. Some even more mysterious than this one.” he prodded. Adam kicked out a foot loosely. “It’s not about that. Or. Not just about that. This place is special. It feels like mine.” He hesitated, looking back at the British expat, who met his gaze patiently. “It’s not that I own it. But. This is _my_ world. It’s mine to protect.” 

The old man smiled gently at him. “It is.” he tapped a fingernail absently on the gunwale. “So, given a choice, you want to stay here,” he confirmed. Adam nodded slowly, then faster. It was such a relief to finally say it out loud. “Yeah. My thesis advisor thinks I have a good chance at getting an associate position, so I could do it, with some luck. Brian is already a lecturer, and Wensleydale reckons that he has a good shot at that grant for undersea cartography, so that would hold us for a year or two while we get our own lab going.” He was thinking out loud now, feeling braver as his hopes seemed to solidify. “There’s so much we don’t know yet, and I know there’s more in the deep, I know it. Pepper has some crazy ideas about the foodwebs, and she’s probably wrong but maybe right, so that could be worth looking into. And we still need to-” Aziraphale chuckled at him. “I agree with you. I’ll help you as much as I can, if you can find a use for me before I drift out to sea” Adam’s eyes widened. 

All of the research teams wanted Aziraphale. He could find data and samples that no one else seemed able to. The devil’s own luck, some of the others grumbled. It was like he had eyes under the boat that knew where all of the oceans’ secrets hid. With Aziraphale’s help, he could do this. He could really do this. Adam leaned back in relief and fist-pumped the air. “Yes!” he cheered. This was the best day. 

He shook off his euphoria as he remembered something. “Aziraphale? Why is this area important to you? You said that before.” The restless tapping stopped as Aziraphale hesitated, turning to gaze out towards the west, where the sun was just dipping to the horizon. They had been talking for quite a while. He was quiet for a long moment. “My partner has lived here his whole life.” he answered slowly. 

Adam held his breath. Aziraphale had never mentioned someone. He lived all alone. He worked alone. He had no family. Where had his partner been? Aziraphale smiled into his beard. “He is...a very unique person. With very strong opinions about the fishing industry.” He looked out towards the setting sun again, then back towards Adam with a wicked little twinkle. “Are you young folks still familiar with the old ‘shave and a haircut’ tune?” he asked.

Adam eyed him. “Yes?” 

Aziraphale dipped his chin at him. “Humor me a moment and demonstrate on the gunwale, will you, my boy?” He looked like he was barely holding back a giggle.

Very sure that he was being pranked, but in too good a mood to mind, Adam made a fist and rapped his knuckles on the painted wood. Knock knock-knock KNOCK knock.

There was a short pause, then a strange splash. Two chirps sounded behind him and Adam yelped and scrambled away before whatever weird bird could peck him. He stumbled into Aziraphale, who steadied him, not even attempting to hide his laughter. Aziraphale made sure he was fine, then levered himself to his feet and strolled away, making quick gestures and signs with his hands and arms.

Adam stared.

A character from a fairytale dripped water onto the deck, sitting in Aziraphale’s lap, signing and whistling in turns as he gestured towards Adam. Aziraphale smiled lovingly as his fingers danced through the air. Their mix of signs, muttered words, hisses, and gestures eventually culminated in Aziraphale making a dramatic negative gesture. The being let out a piercing shriek of joy and hugged him, fins flailing water everywhere. 

“That’s a fucking mermaid.” Adam squeaked. 

Aziraphale disengaged from the happy fish in his lap, who was frantically kissing all over his face, and chuffed disapprovingly at him. “Language. Also, he’s not a mermaid. My partner is male. Adam, this is Crowley.” He smiled. “He knows more about the ocean than either of us ever will.” Aziraphale’s partner flared his fins and waved his webbed fingers, lifting a single eyebrow in the same expression that Adam had seen on Aziraphale’s face for years. There was a tense moment of silence. Aziraphale broke it. “He isn’t a fan of loose fishing nets.” he offered. 

Both of them held each other close as Adam’s heartrate fell and his curiosity rose. He nodded, then let out a breath. “Ok. Yeah. Yeah, that makes sense.” He looked more closely at Aziraphale’s partner. Adam was abruptly desperate to find paper and start taking notes. Crowley had a long tail, mostly black, with white scales sprinkled liberally through it and in long scarred jagged streaks like lightning. His body was scarred all over, but his face was smooth, with broad streaks of gray among the bright red hair on his head and through his eyebrows. His eyes were huge, yellow, and snakelike. He cocked his head at Adam and gave a mocking whistle. 

Adam knew that tone. “Hey. I have a right to be surprised.” he defended himself. “Also, Aziraphale, you win the prank war. Probably forever. Holy shit.” 

Aziraphale smiled at him in obvious relief. “This is why these waters are so important, my boy.” he confessed. He shifted to press a little kiss to Crowley’s temple, who swayed into him, chirring contentedly. He turned back. “I have a few years left in me, but if I have someone I can trust to protect this area, I would feel much better about retiring one day.”

Adam swallowed and stood solemnly. “I understand.” He paused. “So is Crowley coming to the party? I guess it would be hard to get to the downtown restaurant without legs. Should we have it at your house instead?”

Both of them stared at him. Adam shrugged. “I mean, your partner probably wants to celebrate too, right? Since his home isn’t going to get trawled by fisheries anymore?” he guessed. He looked at Crowley. The-merperson, merman? Whatever. “Uh. Nice to meet you. You have good taste in, human guys, I guess. I have so many questions about seasonal fish migration-just warning you about that right now. Are you a fan of tequila?”

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The marine preserve is real! It was signed into law by President Obama, on September 15th, 2016. It's huge-almost 5,000 square miles! You can learn more about it [here](https://www.fisheries.noaa.gov/new-england-mid-atlantic/habitat-conservation/northeast-canyons-and-seamounts-marine-national).

**Author's Note:**

> To see more art like what was in this chapter, visit the artists' [Tumblr](https://sungmee.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/nothistoryyet).


End file.
